Forgive Me
by Nine Bright Shiners
Summary: AU. Three years have passed since Esmeralda's trial. Repenting his part in her death, Frollo has left Paris forever, settling into his new life as a village apothecary and doctor. Then one autumn the gypsies arrive, and he is startled to see the woman he had thought lost to him forever. Based on the novel by Victor Hugo.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N:_ _The first part of this chapter draws heavily on 'Fever'_ _, Chapter 1 from Book Nine of_ Notre-Dame de Paris.

* * *

 **Forgive Me**

 **Chapter 1**

Twice each year, at the blossoming of spring and the falling of the first leaves of autumn, the gypsies made their camp outside the village and put on plays, sang songs and told fortunes. Those days he stayed shut away in his one-room cottage, hearing snatches of song and laughter, unable to rid his mind of a single dancing figure even when he shut his ears and closed his eyes.

* * *

 **Three Years Earlier**

As he wandered blindly among the country roads outside Paris, there was one moment when he knew without question that she was dead. Her figure as he had first seen her, dancing, joyful, passed through his mind – merging horribly with his final image of her, pale and shivering in the white dress of the condemned. She was dead.

Everything that had come to pass in his life thus far, the ideals he had clung to – chastity, science, religion, virtue – all seemed to flee to the distant corners of his mind, draining away into nothingness, lost before he could remember what they were. He swayed where he stood, his head throbbing. Her death should have released him from his torment, from her spell. But instead of release, there was a rising tide of black despair.

Without knowing it he had been circling the city walls. With nowhere else to go, he passed through the city gates and began the journey back to Notre Dame, feeling as though he were being spun back on a thread of fate from which he could not free himself. The houses on either side seemed to grow taller and taller until they burst into flames and shot sparks into the sky. Faces leered everywhere he looked and he broke into a run, panting and gasping – but there was no escape. The vision was within him.

* * *

He remained shut inside his cell in the cloister of Notre Dame for thirty days, admitting no one, not Jehan, not even the bishop. Chapter conferences and services were shunned by him. He covered his window with a thin sheet to spare him the sight of the towers of Notre Dame – and the accompanying memories of how he had once watched Esmeralda dancing from those summits. His wound – self-inflicted in sympathy with her pain at the hands of the torturers in the Palais de Justice – was healing too smoothly, too swiftly. One night, in a spasm of self-hatred and despair he had reopened it, rejoicing in the feeling of blood – his own lifeblood – splashing over his hands; his penance, given too late. But that joy had rapidly faded into horror and he had bound the wound tightly.

Gradually he pulled himself free of that feverish madness which had consumed him throughout the days following her execution. But with the return of clear thought came fresh guilt and horror as he remembered all over again his part in those dreadful events. Day after day he fasted, speaking not a word, undergoing a crisis of faith and self such as he had never felt before.

There were moments when he was almost sure he had come to terms with la Esmeralda's death. After all – and he had meditated often on these matters – the human heart could only hold certain amounts of grief and despair. She was dead – he could now accept it as a truth. But he was at last beginning to realise that he could not go back to being the man he had been before he had seen her dancing, heard her singing. Too much had changed. The whole affair had revealed a man in him he did not know. It had exposed the dark side to his priesthood, the danger of the extremes he had embraced and clung to.

On the thirtieth day he emerged from his cell and went to the bishop. Kneeling on the cold stone, his head bowed, he begged to be removed from service to the Church.

The bishop looked down at the archdeacon with curiosity and surprise. The man's transformation since he had last been seen outside his cell a month ago was shocking. Gone was that imperious demeanour; gone were his harsh, curt words and the bitter smile which habitually twisted his lip. In his place was a man ravaged by illness and regret.

'Why do you ask such a thing, archdeacon?' asked the bishop at last, watching Frollo closely.

The man seemed to suppress a shudder. His head remained bowed as he spoke. 'I am unfit to serve.'

'What do you mean?'

Frollo shook. 'The lowliest beggar is more fit to serve the Holy Church than I am. I wish for nothing more than to leave Paris forever, and spend the rest of my life atoning for the sins I have committed.'

The bishop regarded him sternly. 'That explanation will not do. Tell me what it is which has –'

With a cry the archdeacon cut him off. 'For me to continue as archdeacon would be a mockery of the vocation!' He had raised his head at last, and the desperation in his face made the bishop start back. Frollo's eyes were those of a man who knew himself to be damned, now living only to atone, despite having given up all hope of redemption. 'How can I continue living as a man of the cloth when I deliberately stood by and let an innocent woman die for the crime I committed? Excommunicate me, bishop; and you will have done the Church a greater service than any I have ever given her.'

The bishop had been aware of the archdeacon's recent vehemence against gypsies; slowly it dawned on him that this hatred might have found its origin in a personal vendetta against the dancer, la Esmeralda, who had stood trial for witchcraft and murder only a month ago. Suddenly he found himself recalling Frollo's distractedness in the days leading up to the trial, his eagerness to uncover details about previous trials for witchcraft, the look of dawning horror when he found them.

Unlike Frollo, the bishop knew well that the execution had not gone ahead as planned, and for that reason his words to the archdeacon were less harsh than they might have been.

'Your service until this last month has been faultless. Therefore I will not excommunicate you but instead suspend you of your office, and tell you that, once three days have passed, you may never set foot in Paris again under pain of death.'

Frollo bowed his head in acceptance. It was less than he had expected. In silence he rose and walked out of the cathedral that had been his home all the adult years of his life, making his way through the winding city streets until he came to the gate set in the southern wall. He had no possessions to take with him. He passed through the gate and walked on until Paris was nothing more than a dark blur on the horizon behind him.

* * *

After weeks of walking, he came to a small village in Provence and decided he would stay there, earning his living as a doctor and an apothecary, making use of his forays into medicine as a young man.

The days blurred together. Slowly the memories of his long years in Paris came to seem far away and remote; only the events involving Esmeralda remained fresh in his mind, a regret and sorrow he could never escape from. The work of a doctor came naturally to him. It was not so unlike that of a priest, tending to the health of the body rather than that of the immortal soul. Only a year ago, gazing at the remote stars, delving into the secrets of medicine and the human body, he had found nothing but darkness. All that was forgotten; such extremes were now abhorrent to him. He was still capable of great feeling, but it was feeling tempered by regret, loss and experience.

His doctor's work brought him purpose. It pleased him to observe the effects of his care, to see the sick grow well again. Yet he never laughed, and rarely smiled, and kept himself to himself but for when attending patients. His desire for solitude extended to his Church attendance. Not attending on Sunday mornings like the rest of the village, he instead went at odd moments during the week when the church was sure to be empty.

Three years passed. The village grew used to their austere, silent apothecary, and came to trust him with not only their ailments and illnesses but also their inner hurts and fears. He rarely spoke or offered advice, and yet after speaking to him they came away feeling soothed, emerging from the presence of a man who had surely seen all sins, had perhaps committed several himself, and looked on people with an empathy born of complete lack of judgement. His bedside manner was attentive but remote, and an expression of pain often lingered around his eyes and mouth. Despite the comfort he brought his patients, it seemed that nothing could soothe his cares.

The first of the autumn leaves began to fall, and the clatter of hooves and the ringing of bells could be heard from a distance, mingling with the slow advance of evening. Frollo had spent the night and the following day at the sickbed of a young girl, not able to leave until he was sure she would recover. Now as he hurried along the path leading to his home, set far outside the village, he thought only of reaching shelter before the gypsies arrived. But he was too late. The long line of carts came rattling up the road and he moved to stand in the shade of a line of orange trees, his head bowed. He had meant to keep his eyes lowered until the entire procession had gone by, but some indefinable feeling, almost like a pressure on the back of his neck, made him raise his head – only to look straight into the face of Esmeralda.

He couldn't move, couldn't breathe as his eyes locked with hers. That area on his chest where he had once wounded himself – now healed, marked only by a fading scar – throbbed vividly. This could not be real – she was nothing but a phantom, a last yearning projection of his regrets, his one, desperate wish that she could have escaped death and danced on forever, free of men's dark desires and the passions which had ensnared her in their mesh. It could not be her – yet it could be no other. Even as he watched her face paled and she thrust the reins into the hands of the gypsy at her side before vanishing into the darkness of the covered wagon.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thank you to LadyIngenue for her wonderful notes and encouragement. Do check out her scrumptious Fresme story, 'Father, I Have Sinned', published under the Movies/Hunchback of Notre Dame section of this site. Her Frollo draws on book Frollo more than Disney Frollo, book fans will be pleased to know._

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

He passed the night fitfully, falling asleep only to wake from dreams that left him uneasy and afraid, dreading that if he did not see her at once, hold her in his sight – she would be dead after all. That yesterday's glimpse of her had been nothing but a hallucination, when in reality she had been dead and buried outside Paris for three years.

As the first streaks of grey crept into the dark sky he stole down the path to the gypsy camp. The wagons were still there but there was a bustle of activity. Voices called instructions from one cart to another, while tents were rapidly dismantled and bundled together. Out of all the calls he heard but one voice, low and clear, filling him with a sweet joy, a pure relief he had never thought he would feel.

Then she appeared in a gap between tents, a bundle held tightly in her arms – and she saw him.

Scarcely aware that he was moving, he went to her. 'I must speak with you,' he begged.

She was silent, her eyes lowered. 'I have nothing to say to you,' she said at last.

Time had not lessened her beauty. But there was a melancholy cast to her loveliness. She had lost the innocence and uncomplicated assurance which had drawn him like a moth to flame. Now her mouth pouted less, instead thinning with distrust, and her eyes were alert and wary.

'Tell me at least how it is that you are alive.' His eyes searched her face, taking in the dark sweep of her hair, the flash of her eyes, everything he had never thought to see again.

Her face darkened. 'What explanation do I owe you? After the choice you gave me. Do you remember? The gallows – or you. Death – or a fate you knew to be worse than death to me.' Her eyes blazed; then subsided into gloomy impenetrable pools.

Her words were worse than lashes. He thought he would fall down. But he remained standing, somehow, gazing at her with stricken, desperate eyes.

A small shudder of frustration and distress went through her. At last, seeing that he would not leave, she turned away from him, laid her bundle down on the ground and began to sort and repack the jumble of knives and cooking implements contained there. She was frowning, preparing herself to speak.

He waited, trembling, for her explanation. He wished that they might have gone somewhere more private, but did not dare voice that hope. As he waited for her to begin he could not help the movement of his eyes over her arms and hands and the rest of her form, always returning to linger on her face. He was slowly becoming aware of a dull pain in his chest. After his initial joy and relief, the sight of her was now a stinging, sorrowful pleasure. How had he lived three years without seeing her – thinking she was dead – and because of him? And how was he to live after she had gone from his life again?

She spoke in short, brusque sentences, not looking at him.

'The rope was around my neck. I had lost all hope by that point.'

He had to lower his eyes, a shudder running through his whole body as he saw pictured her as she had stood on the gallows, pale and thin, blue-lipped.

She paused, her eyes dark and bitter, weighing a knife in her hand as she deliberated what to say next. At last she shook her head. 'It was your foster son who saved me. Quasimodo. I had once shown him kindness by giving him water when he was tied to the pillory.'

Again Frollo ducked his head, this time in shame, remembering how he had turned aside from Quasimodo in that piteous state, dreading to be identified with the hunchback.

'It was nothing more than I would have done for an animal. But he took it so to heart that, seeing me about to be executed, he risked his life in rescuing me. He threw me over his shoulder, crying 'Sanctuary!' and carried me up the side of the church, depositing me on the tower platform. With sanctuary claimed, the authorities could not remove me. But neither could I leave. I was trapped there, in the company of a man whose shape and features terrified me, at least until I grew used to them, and came to trust his gentle heart. I stayed there for several weeks, too weak and exhausted to care much about leaving.'

So she had been living with Quasimodo in the bell-tower! And to think, had he not covered his window to hide those great towers from his sight, he might have seen her up there. He shook his head, unable to fully comprehend the path that fate had taken. A creeping jealousy began to take hold of him as he thought how Quasimodo had had her all to himself for several uninterrupted weeks. A moment later he banished the feeling, ashamed. Yet he could not quash his gladness that there seemed to be no special affection in her voice when she spoke of his foster son.

And what of her gallant captain? Had she discovered that the captain had survived? His heart stuttered, his skin turning cold with dread. But she said nothing about Phoebus – whose name she had once loved to speak; to his torment.

'For near on five weeks I remained there.' Now she looked at him, her gaze bright and hard. 'News reached me that you had left Paris forever. I rejoiced.'

He did not look away, though his chest felt tight and chilled.

'One night a stranger came to visit me in my hiding place – it was the bishop of Notre Dame. He told me he had learned of my innocence, and considered it his personal duty to help me escape.'

Frollo heard this with surprise, remembering his confession to the bishop on the day he had been barred from Paris.

'He smuggled me outside Paris, and I fled, joining the first of my people that I encountered. And so my story ends,' she concluded bitterly.

Her bundle was now wrapped and secured. She rose to her feet, holding the bundle to her chest like a shield. She still would not meet his eyes. His longing for her to look at him, that he might see the full flash of her eyes, made him tremble.

'You are leaving,' he said at last.

'I begged the others to move on during the night, but one of the carts needed its wheels replaced. We had to wait until now to go to the blacksmith.'

He was silent, sensing the unease behind her words. Though the gypsies were welcomed for the entertainment they provided, the villagers' goodwill did not extend to being roused in the middle of the night in order to fix cart wheels – not if the cart belonged to gypsies.

'You are far from Paris, priest,' she said at last.

'I am no longer a priest,' he corrected her. Now she looked at him – staring in surprise. Her eyes swept over his austere clothes, not so unlike a priest's cassock. The smallest of smiles touched his lips. 'Old habits die hard,' he said, gesturing to the dark cloth.

She did not smile back. Her eyes were once again fixed on the ground between them.

'I am a doctor,' he went on quickly. 'I care for the villagers when they are sick. I came here three years ago.' He hesitated. 'It was the first place I stopped in after leaving Paris.'

Her expression only grew more guarded, dismaying him. So many emotions showed in her face and none were the ones he wanted to see. Wariness, anger, fear, confusion – but how could he expect anything else? If only she would look at him –

'Esmeralda!' called a man's voice. 'We are about to depart. Hurry or we will leave you behind.'

She glanced back towards the camp – and without thinking Frollo fell on his knees before her, seizing hold of her hands. Her mouth fell open, and she tried to pull away – but he did not let go.

'Hear me, I beg of you. If there was but one deed I could reverse, it would be my part in your trial and everything that led to it. For three years it has been my deepest, most impossible wish. Now that I find you are alive – there is but one thing more that I long for.' He gazed up at her, tears springing to his eyes. 'Say you forgive me, if you can, that I might lift this blackest guilt from my heart, and give the rest of my life to atoning through my work here.'

Her shock and fear were written openly on her face. A long moment passed.

'Esmeralda!' called the man again.

Her face grew hard. Her lips went tight and pale. She wrest her hands from his and fled back to her people. He watched her go, shaking, knowing he deserved nothing less.

* * *

The winter was long and hard. Several of the villagers died of a sickness that spread rapidly through the houses, despite all he did to try to assuage and cure it. He tended to them at all hours, losing himself in the work, walking swiftly from house to house, bringing food and firewood to those unable to fetch it themselves. At last he too caught the sickness but did not stop working until he was unable to stand on his own feet, and a concerned miller's wife walked him home and forced him to retreat into his bed, shivering and delirious. In the few moments of lucidity he had in the next few feverish days, he was aware only of his deep remorse, and his longing for forgiveness. He told himself he should be content that she was alive and well. But he could not rid himself of his helpless yearning for her forgiveness, knowing he did not deserve it.

After five days of drifting in and out of consciousness, he passed the critical stage and slowly grew well again. Soon he was able to resume his work in tending to the villagers, now immune to the infection himself. At last the sickness died away altogether and there was nothing left to tend to but the usual winter colds and bouts of pneumonia.

Spring came and so did the gypsies – but she was not among them. It was another troupe. His voice trembling, he asked them for news of Esmeralda but they only looked at him in silence, their dark eyes expressionless.

* * *

She returned in the autumn. On their first night back in the village, as was tradition, the gypsies put on a night-long display of singing and acrobatics – and dancing. When Esmeralda stepped up to dance, silence fell across the gathering. Besides the low roar and crackle of flames, nothing could be heard but the beat of her feet and the siren call of her tambourine. Frollo had sworn that he would not go, that he would not leave his cottage for the duration of her stay – but he was there like all the others, unable to tear his eyes from her.

He stood deep in the crowd, hoping that there he would be able to watch her unseen. Her limbs gleamed in the firelight, her black hair tumbled around her shoulders as she turned and spun. Long ago her dance had evoked tortured feelings of lust and hate in him. He still desired her; what man could not? But now desire was the least dominant of the feelings her dance evoked in him. Far more powerful was the bittersweet longing and regret that gripped him. He thought again of that terrible choice he had given her: life or death, him or the gallows. As he watched her swaying and extending her arms, her head tilting back, sending her hair cascading over her shoulders, he felt himself begin to understand why freedom was so vital to her; so precious that death was preferable to a life lived out under the mastery of another.

As though sensing his thoughts, she turned her head – and her eyes locked with his. His breath caught – waiting for the moment when she would drop her tambourine and cease to dance. But the moment did not come. Instead her movements grew faster, daring and defiant; magnificent. She did not look at him again. When the dance ended she gasped for breath – and he too felt robbed of air.

* * *

 _A/N: If anyone spotted the pun which occurs during Frollo's conversation with Esmeralda (hint: think of religious clothing), I will be very happy indeed. I only noticed it myself after proof-reading this chapter for the third time, but I like to think Frollo, being rather cleverer and wittier than I, was conscious of it as he spoke it._

 _Please do leave a review, I'd love to know your thoughts. The rest of the story has been drafted, and should be posted within the next couple of weeks._


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: In this chapter and others I use the word 'caravan' in its less common sense: a large group of people, typically with vehicles (in this case carts and wagons), travelling together in single file._

 _Thank you to LadyIngenue for her brilliant notes and her expertise in medieval medicine._

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

A dark shape was moving slowly down the road. The priest. Cold dread drew an icy covering over her skin but he did not stop, did not even look up as he passed the camp. For a brief moment she saw his face. His expression was of one deep in thought. He walked past the camp, heading directly for the church. She scoffed. Of course.

Her eyes followed him, though she could not say why. She had sworn to herself that she would never return here. Not while knowing the man she hated had made this place his home. Yet when the leader of her caravan had suggested the group make this slumbering, orange-groved village their next stop, she had voiced no protest. Not even when her confidante, Dorenia, had given her a sharp look.

In truth, Esmeralda had felt there was not much use resisting. She had little say in where the caravan went. And besides, some superstitious part of her, hushed and tentative, had whispered that her return was fated. Though she hated it, she could not deny that something still tied her to the priest. _Let this be my chance to sever that tie once and for all,_ she willed.

Last night as she'd danced she'd felt a prickle on her skin that told her he was there, watching her. How abashed he'd looked when she'd caught his eye – how disappointed. He'd been so sure she would stop the dance mid-beat and _run._ She shook her head, a look of proud defiance flashing across her face. She would never run from him.

A woman stepped around from behind the houses and called to Frollo. He stopped at once and turned. She spoke to him in a low, earnest voice. Frollo listened in silence, his head bowed.

Without conscious thought, Esmeralda laid down her basket and made her way down the tree-lined road, weaving in and out of the long shadows, taking care to remain hidden from sight.

'Monsieur; we can never thank you enough. I was so sure she wouldn't last the night. If not for your help we would have lost her. Please, monsieur; you must take this gift as a token of our thanks.' Frollo shook his head, protesting softly, but the woman would brook no argument and thrust a basket of golden pears into his arms. She kissed his cheek briefly, the gesture fond and maternal, before hurrying away with a wave.

When she was gone, Frollo sighed, and looked down into the basket, a half smile on his lips. Shaking his head again, he let the basket swing at his side and continued on to the church.

Esmeralda stood stock-still, her lips pressed together, her keen eyes narrowed, fixed on his retreating back. She watched as he laid the basket in the shade of the church porch before vanishing into the cool twilight of the church.

* * *

Frollo sat in the empty church, his head bowed over his clasped hands. He was not praying exactly, only seeking a moment of quiet and silence before going about his daily work in the village.

All night he had lain awake, unable to rid his mind of Esmeralda's dance. Again and again his thoughts had returned to that moment when she had turned her head – and her eyes had gazed directly into his. Remembering it again, he shivered, then cursed himself for his weakness. These thoughts led only to madness. He dreaded a return to those extremes. His fear was for himself – and, more pressingly, for her.

Yet was he still capable of returning to that same fever pitch? Some submerged, honest part of him told him he was not. He had changed too much, grown too tempered – he never wished to experience that insanity again.

Soft footsteps sounded behind him. He felt his breath go short, his chest tighten. There was a swish of skirts as she sat in the pew behind his.

'You say you are no longer a priest, yet still you frequent the house of your God.'

He gave no reply, his gaze fixed on his folded hands.

An uncomfortable quiet drew out. Her voice was heavy, as though she spoke against her own wishes. 'Why did you leave Paris?' He hesitated and she went on, 'I never understood it.'

'The bishop said nothing to you?' he asked.

'No, he did not,' she confirmed, surprised.

He paused, wondering how much to tell her; would she believe him? 'I asked him to discharge me,' he said quietly. 'I … I confessed that you had been innocent; that it was my crime you had been killed – punished for. He took away my priesthood and forbade me ever to return to Paris.'

'I don't believe you,' she said slowly. 'You were so sure I was a witch – there should have been nothing for you to confess!' Her voice had grown mocking, bitter.

'Perhaps for a while I convinced myself you were a witch,' he admitted, his body going hot with guilt and shame. 'But after your death I knew that idea to be false.' He paused, resisting his urge to turn to her. 'You must believe me,' he intoned.

She considered his words in silence. How he longed to look at her and try to learn from her features what she was thinking. But he did not quite dare.

Without warning she burst out, 'When will you confess it?'

He started. 'Confess what?'

'You knew Phoebus was alive, yet you told me he was dead – over and over each time I asked you. You lied to me, when you knew I was about to die.'

This accusation was so unexpected that he could not speak.

'Answer me,' she commanded.

'It was the truth. Or rather – I was certain it was the truth.' He shook his head. 'I _wanted_ him to be dead – and was certain he was. Surely no one could have survived that wound. I never lied to you on that account – not in words at least. But there was one moment at the gallows – after telling you twice that he was dead and believing it – when I looked over your shoulder and saw him alive. I – I could not bear it.' A shudder went through him, but his voice did not waver again. 'Like a coward I fled, abandoning you to your fate.' At last he said, 'There is nothing I regret more.'

She made a low, angry noise, rejecting his words. 'I saw Phoebus that day too – only a minute after you had gone.' When she was able to speak again her voice was low and bitter. 'He saw me, too, but fled when he recognised me.' Now her voice throbbed with anger, directed at him. '"No one shall have you," you said. You got your wish. You did not get me, but neither did Phoebus, nor any other man.' She laughed bitterly. 'Even Gringoire no longer has me. Our marriage contract ended last winter. He chose my goat over me.' Her voice dared him to mock her.

But he felt only pain at her words. 'I am sorry for you,' he said sincerely.

She was speechless for a moment. Then she laughed, harsh and scornful. 'Now I can well understand how you reached the rank of archdeacon. Each word you speak _sounds_ honest, beguilingly sincere, like the serpent's, but look any closer and they are rank and rotting.'

'You do not think, then, much of the Church. Or of me.' He could feel her anger simmering, pressing against him in waves.

'Tell me,' she said. 'If I had been a noblewoman, or at least, not a gypsy, would you have dared to give me the choice you did? Death or ruin?'

It took him a moment to find his voice. 'It was not your low class that marked you out.' He faltered. She waited, in a tense, expectant silence that seemed to stretch to fill the wide empty space around them. A strange feeling took hold of him. He wanted nothing more than to tell her the truth, a truth he had barely begun to grasp himself in the last long years of regret and penance. He wanted her to understand, even if she could not forgive.

'I saw something in you – innocence, abandonment, beauty and delight. But above all I saw freedom. Freedom from any care for what others approved or sanctified.' He drew in a breath. 'You were far beyond anything I had ever – could ever fully imagine, hemmed in as I was on every side by the commands and systems of my office - and still more by the laws and demands of my own rigid conscience.'

Her voice was hostile. 'And so you tried to curb that freedom, to bind it and stifle it just like your precious Church did to you.'

He realised he was shaking. 'Perhaps I did!' The words rushed out of him before he could take them back: 'There is nothing I can do to change what happened. I regret it every day. But I am certain of one thing: it was a different man who did those things.'

'A different man,' she mocked.

'Yes! A man stifled and twisted by too rigid restraint and mortification of the self. I can never go back to what I was then. Believe that, if you believe nothing else.'

To his relief she did not mock his words this time, but seemed to ponder them, striving to meet them without the prejudice he expected – and deserved. Breathless from his confession, he longed to turn and look at her, but did not. When she spoke it was of something else entirely, almost a concession.

'Last year when you said nothing of Phoebus I was certain you were keeping silent in order to bait and humiliate me further.' She let those words linger for a while, giving no hint of whether she still felt the same way. Then she went on in a neutral voice, 'I've seen you as you walk by my people. You still avert your eyes - yet in remorse it seems, not in hatred, as before.'

He sat in silence, not daring to speak. High above them the church bells rang – the sound was closer and less majestic than the bells of his – their – Notre Dame.

They roused words from her, quiet and wistful. 'They sound so small, almost pitiful.' From the sound of her voice he could imagine she was gazing upwards, her head tipping back, stirring her hair into dark, rippling cascades. 'When I first heard the bells of Notre Dame,' she went on softly, 'they shook me to my soul.'

* * *

Over the next two days he went about his doctor's work diligently, lowering his gaze whenever he went by the gypsy camp. His conversation with her played over and over in his mind. Never before had he experienced such a twisting, unpredictable dialogue. Their exchange had been one of barbed hostility and distrust on her side, and defence and regret on his – and yet she had ended by speaking in almost conciliatory tones, her voice startlingly tender as she spoke of the bells of Notre Dame. He could not understand what could have wrought such a change in her, allowing her to speak like that while they were alone together.

Somehow the memory of that tenderness caused him more pain than his remembrance of her hostility. It brought back that bittersweet moment, just after he had abandoned her at the gallows, when he had allowed himself to imagine the life they might have lived together had he not been a priest, and were she not a gypsy. What irony now one of those conditions was true: and yet that life was more unattainable than ever. Whenever these thoughts occurred to him he forced them away, but it always took him several long minutes before he was quite himself again.

He went home one night and sat at his desk, poring over a doctor's book he had purchased on a rare trip to Marseilles. A banging at the door roused him from his reading. He opened the door to find Esmeralda.

She was breathless and flushed – yet there was painful reserve in her face and voice when she spoke.

'There is a sick child. Nothing his mother has tried will help him; she sent me to fetch you. There is no one else.'

He seized his doctor's bag and followed her swiftly to the camp. He had never been among gypsies in this way before. He felt curious glances assuage him from all sides and did his best to hide his own unease and trepidation. Esmeralda took no notice but opened the door to one of the caravans and ushered him inside. A desperate woman crouched over a young boy; her son. He lay on a pallet, his skin pale, beads of sweat glistening on his face. After a brief, careful examination, Frollo diagnosed him with sweating sickness.

'Tell me what I can do,' Esmeralda pleaded.

He gave her quick, clear instructions and together they set to work cooling the boy's limbs, spreading camphor onto his chest to help ease his breathing. While Frollo brewed a medicine made from bark and yarrow, Esmeralda comforted the boy's tearful mother before sending her away. When the brew was ready, Esmeralda fed it to the boy one spoonful at a time, cradling his head in gentle hands. After hours of watchfulness, the boy's temperature at last began to cool.

'He is safe,' Frollo said in a low voice, exhausted and pleased.

Esmeralda said nothing, only smiling down at the child, a wide, open smile that lit up her eyes. Her fatigue from the night's vigil seemed to flee her face as she looked at the boy – and Claude realised with a shock that he loved her.

* * *

 _A/N: Here is the beautiful passage from Hugo's novel which I referred to, in which Claude imagines a future for himself and Esmeralda:_

'And when he strove to picture to himself the happiness that he might have found on earth if she had not been a gypsy, and if he had not been a priest, if Phoebus had not existed, and if she had loved him; when he considered that a life of serenity and affection might have been possible for him, too, even for him; that, at that very moment, there were here and there on the earth happy couples lost in long conversations under orange groves, on the banks of murmuring streams, in the presence of the setting sun, and if God had willed it, he might have formed with her one of those blessed couples, his heart dissolved in tenderness and despair.' - _Notre-Dame de Paris -_ Victor Hugo

 _It is the above passage which led me to include orange trees in this story, and to choose a picture of an orange tree for my cover image. And in line with this orange theme, I would like to include this gorgeous poem by Rilke, a poet I have previously turned to when choosing titles for my other fanfiction stories._

Make of the orange a dance. Who can be oblivious  
Of how it drowns in itself, of how it restrains  
Its very essence of sweetness, holds it back? It  
Has possessed you. You have deliciously converted it into you.

Dance the orange. The warmth of the landscape,  
It draws you forth, so that your ripeness streams forth  
Resplendent on the local breezes! A glow arising, revealed

Aroma after aroma! Evoke its affinity  
With the pure, self-denying peel,  
With the juice which joyously fills it!

\- Number 15, _The Sonnets to Orpheus_ \- Rainer Maria Rilke


End file.
